


Here Comes the Moon

by cantgetnoworse



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, M/M, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:23:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantgetnoworse/pseuds/cantgetnoworse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It's quite simple, really. Harry comes home from the bakery -- flour trapped between the threads of his beanie, a few quid in his pocket in tips -- before his boyfriend can leave his art studio so that he can cook up a storm for him.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here Comes the Moon

Every night, Harry cherishes the small window of time between 6:00 and 7:00 PM. 

It's always the same sight. Grocery bags strewn across the countertop of his petite London apartment, ceiling hanging low above his head. There are knives scattered haphazardly around a plastic cutting board, a slew of ripe vegetables sliced neatly into small squares, just the way Zayn likes them. ( _I like to taste everything in each bite,_ Zayn had told Harry two weeks into their relationship, and Harry never seemed to forget, cutting the green peppers smaller and smaller each time to make sure Zayn never missed them.)

Harry is not blind. He realizes that it's meant to be some sort of great tragedy, the fact that he's all of 18 years old and has already fallen into a daily routine. It's quite simple, really. Harry comes home from the bakery -- flour trapped between the threads of his beanie, a few quid in his pocket in tips -- before his boyfriend can leave his art studio so that he can cook up a storm for him. He's only a teenager, but he can't bring himself to crave the cliched recklessness of wasted youth when he has the safety of this small flat with deep pink candles burning raspberry into the air, a queen sized mattress for two that's never really tidy and a boy that's all his for once.

It's not like he's missed out on anything, per se. He's tried it all. He's tried the drink-until-you-vomit-your-insides-on-the-sidewalk route. He's tried the ecstasy pills that had him aching for days after because he'd swung his limbs in ways they didn't quite fancy swinging. He's tried the all-nighters smoking pot in his best mate's cellar while watching films from before they were born, eating stale crisps and guzzling a disturbing amount of fizzy drinks that had gone flat. He's tried the boys who would shag him against beer-stained sheets and make him scream with a release that rocked his entire body but would lock hands with their girlfriends the next day, avoiding his gaze even though they were in three of his same lectures. He's tried the boys who would let him fuck them into the wall but would never say they loved him, just that he made them want to drop to their knees and possibly that he'd left them feeling emptier than before.

And then he tried Zayn. Smoke on his tongue, lashes that curled obscenely into his eyelids, eyes that sparkled beneath any glint of light. Tongue that would catch between his teeth whenever he smiled, a tease of what's to come, a tease of what makes Harry come, the tip of Zayn's tongue on the tip of his cock at the edge of his orgasm. 

He's tried Zayn in the heat of the sunlight, fingers tangled in plain sight of passers-by, quick kisses exchanged instead of tedious words. He's tried Zayn's whiskey tongue on the white wine of his own. He's tried Zayn telling him precisely how to sit as he drew him with the help of a tattered easel, painting him in broad strokes before filling in the shadows with thousands of dabs so small you could barely see them until he was finished. He's tried the taste of Zayn's morning breath before it turns to mint and has felt the hardened length of him pressed into his thigh, waking him up before his alarm can. 

And every night, Harry cherishes the small window of time between 6:00 and 7:00 PM. 

Harry stands at the stove, 6:32 PM. He has one hand stirring the pasta in boiling water, steam coming up to moisten his bony wrist, his other hand shaking ground pepper into the rosé sauce, face contorted into a state of utter concentration. 

Zayn makes his way home from the studio, 7:06 PM. A tube of rolled paintings tucked beneath his arm, cigarette pressed behind his ear, fingers stained in orange and yellow and red and blue, his thin white shirt in a matching state.

Harry knows all the sounds that will follow. The click of the front door and the clatter of Zayn's keys on the bookshelf nearby. The thump of the tube of paintings as it hits the floor, bouncing once before rolling to a stop against the leg of the coffee table. The swipe of Zayn's toes against the back of his shoes, pushing them off one by one and kicking them to the wall.

There's a scent of paint fumes and fresh cigarette smoke and the dull remnants of Zayn's aftershave when Zayn pads into the kitchen in bare feet, fitted trousers, white shirt. He presses himself against Harry's back and Harry smiles. Zayn's fingers curl around the jut of his hipbones, lips pressing slow kisses into the back of his neck, breathing warm against the hair that raises softly to meet his mouth.

"Don't mess me up," Harry says, canting his head away from Zayn's lips. "There'll be plenty of time for that after."

Zayn moves his teeth to Harry's ear when he pulls away, biting it back just hard enough that it's mostly playful, but it makes Harry's stomach tighten with the unspoken promise of more. 

"I finished a painting," Zayn murmurs against his earlobe, and Harry feels a shiver go down his spine at the implication. Zayn always gets an unbeatable rush after finishing a piece, always fucks Harry so fervently, so passionately, so appreciatively as he murmurs words into his neck that sound unmistakably like _muse, muse, muse_.

"Can it wait until after the pasta's done boiling or do you fancy a quick shag?"

"I fancy a quick shag," Zayn says, and Harry feels Zayn's fond smile on his skin now, infectious, reaching his own lips.

"You're a monster," Harry tells him, but there's no power behind the words, just wild adoration, just contradicting affection and a hint of lust bubbling to the surface.

"Heya. I love you, you know," Zayn tells him, and Harry reaches out to turn off the stove as soon as the words hit the air; there's no use pretending that dinner will come first. He turns around to face Zayn, a near perfect fit in his arms, and he gives his lips up to the warmth of Zayn's kisses, fingers finding the cool metal of his zip without another word.


End file.
